


mistletoe is a weed

by carloabay



Series: you meant so well [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Christmas, F/F, Huddling For Warmth, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Kissing, Mistletoe, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:09:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28223676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carloabay/pseuds/carloabay
Summary: Natasha knows what it's like when things come at you from the dark.
Relationships: Sharon Carter/Natasha Romanov
Series: you meant so well [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2138709
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	mistletoe is a weed

**Author's Note:**

> This is horrifically tropey and self-indulgent. Enjoy.

Natasha didn't expect to be covered in blood and lugging Agent Thirteen through knee deep snow on Christmas Eve, but surprises happen.

It's a dark op, paired, no medevac, no extraction plan. 

A laboratory in northern Norway, in the middle of a forest of fir trees and brambles. Natasha has their objective tied around her neck, a metal hip flask that's leaving a cold imprint against her skin.

(Carter scoffed when Natasha began loading governmental secrets into a hip flask, but she's not laughing anymore.)

Natasha's foot hits a rock and she stumbles, glaring over the dim white ground. She's soaked through, freezing, and there's a long, ruffled path of bloodstained snow behind them.

The sun is a pinpoint in the sky, a dirty yellow smudge behind thick clouds, and it's dangerously close to the horizon. Natasha's stolen rifle slaps her hip in rhythm with each struggling step.

She pauses, leaning one shoulder against a tree, and cranes her neck to take a look at poor, bleeding Carter, slung gracelessly over Natasha's shoulder like a sack of pretty potatoes.

Her eyes are closed, flickering beneath her eyelids like she's dreaming. She's too pale, almost green, and her lips are turning white. Natasha heaves Carter into a more secure position, and keeps walking.

Natasha's used to the cold. She's used to the snow and the blood and the trees, like thin-fingered stone pillars, looming darkly over her path. That doesn't mean she likes it.

Each breath is like needles on one side of her ribs, a thin, crisp sound every time she moves. Possibly broken, from being kicked down a set of stairs.

The safehouse is two hundred yards from here, a lump of a cabin on the edge of the treeline. She can't rest. She can't stop now.

Her pants are freezing, sticking to the the backs of her calves, and the ends of her hair are hardening. In the dark, she can't tell what's blood and what's clothing, Natasha can't tell where Carter ends and she begins.

She has to break the lock to get in, and inside there's a table, a chair, a bare couch and a stone-cold fireplace. A cupboard, with one door swinging off its top hinge, and a rickety wooden single bed with a bare mattress.

Her legs give out the second they're inside the door. She falls in a tangle of limbs, and just manages to get her hand under Carter's head, to cushion her. The floor skins her frozen knuckles, and her knees bruise on impact. 

Natasha lays Carter gently down on the floor, and sways on her knees for a second, exhaustion and cold and pain like a cloud around her ears.

The dark closes in on them, wind seeping in through the open door, snowflakes crawling over the threshold. The world stretches like putty, and things come at her from the dark, reddish wolves with nicotine-yellowed gums, gun muzzles and wandering hands with cracked nails, the ever-present snap of the cold, tearing pieces off her, bite by bite, stripping her down to bones.

She doesn't give in.

∆

Sharon wakes in the cold.

Cold wood, beneath the skin of her shoulder blades, cold air, stuffing cruel fingers down her throat. 

She gets an elbow under her hip and levers herself into a sitting position; her abdomen aches like all hell, like the whole thing is bruised, and there's a stabbing pain under her other shoulder. The air darkens around her face, black and grey patches, and Sharon slumps back down again.

She remembers: a hallway full of bullets, a spray of blood and a stinging impact. A smear of red down a wall. A long journey through the dark, a sharp shoulder in her stomach, the cold wrapping around her ankles like two fists.

"Evening." She jerks awake again, barely. She's not sure she trusts herself to speak.

Agent Romanoff-

Someone snaps their fingers in front of her face.

"Deep breaths, Carter. I didn't drag you four miles and stitch you up just so you could die on a table in the middle of nowhere."

"I'm not dying," Sharon mumbles. Her lips feel like cement. Her tongue tastes like an open grave.

"Good." The ceiling is wooden, probably. It's a little too dark to tell. Sharon tries to keep her eyes open. She's not shivering enough.

"Romanoff?"

"That's the one," Romanoff replies. Sharon takes a moment. The darkness reaches for her, clutching hands. It wants her to fall.

"You...got out, then."

"Somehow." Romanoff is moving around somewhere, a clatter of wood, a zipper being undone. "Sorry about the bruises."

"I'll live," Sharon breathes. Romanoff passes by the table, a whisper, so close Sharon could reach out and-

"I know," Romanoff says, softer.

The dark snags her hair. Sharon falls.

∆

She dreams about-

-a knife, in her stomach, bright brown eyes.

A pretty, pretty smile. Antoine Triplett twists the knife, and Sharon coughs blood onto his collarbone.

Ice, a sheen over her eyeballs, every blinks cracks it, every tear freezes over. She's on all fours, spitting up broken metal. Blood on her thighs, blood on her cheeks, bloodied ice over her eyeballs.

Someone dies beneath her foot, and she grinds her heel carelessly into their throat. Natasha, red hair like a fan of fire, ice on her eyelashes. Natasha dies beneath Sharon's foot, her hand on a knife buried in Sharon's stomach, and neither relent.

∆

Carter wakes with a gasp on the table, nails digging into the wood, shaking all over.

She's not fully back yet, that glaze over her eyes, terror tugging on her mouth. Natasha vaults the couch and lands softly beside the table, her hand on Carter's arm before either of them know what's going on.

"Carter!" she snaps. Carter's sweating, clammy from blood loss, and her eyes are wild now. "Hey, look at me." She grabs Carter's chin, pulls her head around until her eyes are staring right into Natasha's. She digs her fingers into Carter's jawbone. "Feel this, right? Listen, listen to me. It's alright." Carter's breath, in tepid puffs on Natasha's face, slows to a rasp. "See? We're in Norway, remember? Middle of fucking nowhere. It's cold as hell."

"Got it," Carter gasps, like she's coming down from a high. She shakes her head, back and forth, hair tangling around her ears. "Sorry. That was-"

"Don't apologise," Natasha says, too quick, too harsh. Carter flinches, trembling. 

Natasha knows what it's like when things come at you from the dark.

Their faces are still inches apart. Natasha's still gripping Carter's head like she's about to crush it. She loosens her grip, and her hand moves of its own accord, flicking a strand of Carter's hair away from her eyes.

"Thank you," Carter says, dizzily. Natasha lets go of her arm.

"No problem." Carter notices the blanket draped haphazardly over her body, and clutches it to her chest. Natasha snorts, involuntarily. "Bit late for that." Carter flushes furiously, and Natasha backs off. "You want me to move you to the bed?" she asks, trying to be gentle and helpful, but it comes out cold. Carter eases her legs off the table with a taught jaw.

"I can get there myself," she replies. Her eyes dart over the room, to the fire Natasha had been building, the open cupboard, the tatty couch. "This looks like it hasn't been renovated recently," she jokes, strain around her eyes. She touches down, feet to the floor, and steadies herself with a strong hand on the table edge. 

Natasha hovers near.

Carter takes three steps, and then her left leg gives out.

She falls, catches herself by clutching at the couch arm, slumps to one knee, gritted teeth. Natasha can tell she's holding back a cry of pain. Natasha's hands twitch like they want to help her up.

Carter's eyes flicker up, red-veined whites, but _good God_ her irises are dark. Dark like a warning, like blackwood.

"You said you could get there yourself," Natasha challenges, and she turns away to build up the fire.

∆

The only food is undated granola bars. Natasha spends the night laying blanket after blanket over Carter's trembling body, but in between those times, they ignore each other.

There's water purifying tablets in the cupboard. Natasha crouches in the doorway and melts snow into a pot with her breath, the rifle leaning against the frame, solid and comforting. There are bears in Norway. Wolves. Smugglers. She rubs her fingers together and stuffs them under her armpits, glaring out into the muffled darkness with aching eyes.

Northern nights are far too long, and Natasha starts to run out of things to do to keep herself warm.

"You good, Carter?" she asks, at last, sipping on the water, and gets a sort of cross grunt in reply. Natasha turns back to the fire. If she lets her mind glaze enough, she can almost imagine that the cold isn't there. She can _think_ herself warm.

"I'm too cold to sleep."

Natasha sets the water down.

"You need another blanket?"

"...no," Carter mumbles. Natasha takes a sip of water again. Then it dawns on her, and she laughs, a knee-jerk reaction from the cold and the exhaustion. A blanket comes flapping angrily at her head from Carter's direction and she catches it before it wraps around her face.

"Sorry. _Jesus_. Missing your boyfriend?" she teases, getting slowly to her feet.

"I don't have a boyfriend." That would be nice to know, under different circumstances.

"I'm out of your league."

"Get over here before I strangle you," Carter growls, still shaking with the cold. Natasha bites back a smile.

She winds her way around the edge of the couch, pulling the blanket over her shoulders. She lifts her leg, knee dipping into the mattress, and Carter, with her back turned, relaxes somewhat. 

Natasha slides down the mattress, pressing herself up against Carter's back; Carter radiates heat, even through all those layers. 

It should be easy enough, once she's tangled in someone else's warmth, to fall asleep, content and exhausted. 

Somehow, it's not. 

Carter's ankle has somehow become hooked around the inside of Natasha's knee, and Natasha's chin is on Carter's shoulder. They're bent into each other, like a two-piece puzzle. Carter's hair is splayed over Natasha's face, and it smells faintly of coconut products.

Her hand is on Carter's waist and her pulse is thrumming a million miles an hour.

She's in deep shit. And that's her last thought before she falls asleep, curled around Sharon Carter.

∆

Sharon wakes up in the cold.

It's a morning-cold; fresh cold, early cold. The blankets have slipped off one shoulder, leaving it bare, raising the hairs on her skin. She's bone tired, though, tired all the way through, and she doesn't move to cover herself.

Her head is pounding.

"You want some water?" Romanoff's voice is disembodied, winding drunkenly into Sharon's ear like a ribbon. Sharon groans and ducks her head under the blankets, like the dark will cure her. A heavy pain thrums through her skull and she has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out.

Blood wells over her tongue and she chokes it down. 

A hand on her shoulder, gently tugging, and Sharon rolls with it, onto her back. The light in the cabin isn't bright, but it's sharp and cold, and that's enough to hurt.

"Sit up," Romanoff says. Sharon doesn't want to sit up. She wants to lie here and die. But Romanoff doesn't take no for an answer.

Romanoff digs an arm underneath Sharon's shoulders, bony and uncomfortable, and heaves her upright, linking her fingers, encircling Sharon in her arms. Sharon tips forward, and her forehead slams into Romanoff's shoulder. She tries to raise a hand, she succeeds in reaching out, fingers finding Romanoff's upper arm, and Sharon holds on, to keep herself grounded and awake and _here_ , and Romanoff doesn't move away.

There's a hand on the back of Sharon's neck, small and warm, fingers moving in tiny circles on the underside of her skull, thumb smoothing down over the place where her spine slots in, tangling in her hair. Sharon sighs.

"You want that water now?" Romanoff asks. Her mouth is right next to Sharon's ear, her voice heaving into Sharon's aching brain, low and loud.

"Yeah," Sharon replies. Her voice creaks like a chair. Romanoff's arm is warm through her jacket. "Please." Romanoff's hand slides around from Sharon's neck, until the pad of her thumb is digging up underneath Sharon's jaw, hot against Sharon's skin, and she pushes, tipping Sharon's head back. 

The two of them separate, slowly, with a rustle of cloth, and Romanoff holds up a metal mug full of water, presses it into Sharon's free hand. Sharon still hasn't let go of Romanoff's arm. She isn't planning to; she knows she'll keel over instantly.

She drinks, and it's cold like pretty much everything in this damn place apart from Romanoff, but the dryness in her throat vanishes, and Sharon gulps it all down, greedily.

"Sorry," she gasps, as soon as she's finished. "Did you want some?"

Romanoff is watching the mug. 

"No," she manages, seeming to come out of some sort of trance. "It's okay. I'm..." She pushes away from the bed, and Sharon's fingers loosen, letting go of Romanoff's arm. Romanoff pushes a hand through her hair. "I'm going to get some more wood. Lie down." He turns on her heel, and leaves. 

Sharon wipes her mouth.

The place where Romanoff's hand was a second ago feels like negative space now.

Sharon falls back onto the bed and tries to forget about that.

∆

Natasha's getting tired of digging through the snow for firewood. Everything's damp and freezing, and her fingers are stiffening. 

A promising log falls apart to mouldy bark in her hands, and Natasha growls in frustration, heaving her pitiful armful of wood under one arm. She kicks the disintegrated log for a second, and then turns and stalks back to the deep pathway cut into the snow that leads to the cabin.

Misletoe is growing in a clearing, choking a small sapling, and Natasha almost marches straight past it.

She halts, a spray of snow. 

∆

"Merry Christmas," Romanoff says, throwing open the door, arms piled high with wood, and Sharon squints at her. There's a plant hanging from her hand, white berries, green leaves.

"Is that mistletoe?" she asks, her voice cracking like she smokes thirty a day.

"It's pretty," Romanoff says, defensively, and Sharon frowns. 

"It's a weed."

"Are you going to come over here and throw it out?" Romanoff replies, a raised eyebrow, a glint of challenge. Sharon grips the edge of the bed weakly. She'll collapse if she tries to get to her feet.

"Don't be a prick."

"That's what I thought." Romanoff sets the wood down on the table with a _clack_ , like she's won, and throws the mistletoe over the doorframe. "Did you eat anything?"

"Do you care?" Sharon snaps. Romanoff turns, very slowly, narrowed eyes.

She did eat, one of the granola bars that turned to dust in her throat. She choked it down with water.

"Do you want to stay alive, or not?" Romanoff inquires, casually, like she's asking about the weather. Sharon glares at her, and Romanoff stares coldly back. They hold a gaze for a long, long moment, and Sharon's heart starts screaming at her, like she's running out of oxygen, like Romanoff's eyes are cutting off the blood to her head.

Sharon gives in.

"Yes," she grunts. "I ate."

"Good. Shut up and rest." Romanoff gathers the wood up again and walks to the fireplace, where the fire is burning low. Sharon doesn't lie down, or close her eyes. She's exhausted, faint, her head is still aching and her shoulder is numb, but for some throat-closing, prideful reason, she doesn't want to take orders from Romanoff. "Lie down, Carter."

She doesn't lie down.

"Christ," Romanoff mutters, to herself, and she rises from beside the fire and stalks Sharon down like a wolf; it's only when she's half a foot away that Sharon can finally notice how epically green Romanoff's eyes are, emeralds, poison.

Romanoff puts her hands on Sharon's shoulders, palms flat against her collarbones, and shoves, and Sharon's too dizzy to resist. 

She falls.

Her back hits the mattress and she bounces slightly, Sharon lets her head loll so it hits the bed hard, and it's like her brain knocks against the inside of her skull.

She raises her head, gets an arm beneath her to push herself groggily back up, and then Romanoff's hand is on her hip, her knees either side of Sharon's thighs, and she's crouched over Sharon like she's about to eat her alive. Sharon goes still.

You're supposed to play dead when you're cornered by a predator.

But Romanoff doesn't look too much like a predator.

Eyes like slabs of green rock, pinning Sharon to the bed, and a ragged end of red hair brushes Sharon's temple. One elbow by Sharon's head, one hand still wrapped around Sharon's hip. Her breath is warm on Sharon's face, nose inches away from Sharon's. Their gaze is locked.

She looks like-

Romanoff's eyes flicker to Sharon's jaw, where Sharon knows her pulse is slamming against her skin, far too fast to be anything innocent.

Romanoff smiles, canines frosty in the dim cabin light.

"Alright, Carter?" she says, and her voice is low and dangerous.

Sharon wants, all of a sudden. A streak of multicoloured desire shoots down her spine, and she wants to kiss her, wants to dig her fingers into Romanoff's hair and slide up, until they're chest to chest and mouth to mouth, wants to curve into her and-

Sharon strains, ineffectively, against Romanoff's iron hold on her hip. She knows her face is burning red. Romanoff is grinning now, unmoving, hovering above Sharon. Her cheeks are a little hollow, blue shadows under her eyes.

Sharon turns her head away with a shudder, slackening beneath Romanoff's grip. Romanoff's breath is hot on her neck instead, and Sharon blindly tries to think of something, anything else.

"Stay down," Romanoff says, rough, and then she lets go. Sharon doesn't try to get back up.

∆

S.H.I.E.L.D makes contact two hours later. 

Romanoff's radio chirps to life on the table. Romanoff is absent, stalking a large perimeter around the cabin for grass under the snow. 

Sharon lifts her head.

" _This is the Hub, calling Strike Norway. Do you read?_ "

It takes Sharon a second, to clear her head and start thinking. The radio buzzes again.

" _This is the Hub, calling Strike Norway. Black Widow, do you read?_ "

The three metre walk to the table is the longest in her life. Sharon drags herself over, fingers clawed over purchase, the head of the bed, the arm of the couch, the back of the chair.

She snatches the radio up.

"This is Strike Norway, Agent Thirteen," she gasps, into the mouthpiece, and someone lets out a gusty breath on the other end.

" _Merry Christmas, Agent Thirteen_ ," they say, and she can hear relief. " _You're going home_." Sharon grins.

∆

"We've got an airlift," Carter says from the table, hunched on a chair and cloaked in all her blankets, the second Natasha gets through the entryway.

Natasha lets the door close slowly.

"Good," she says, and she sets her handful of frozen grass down on the table. "How long?"

"Three hours. A mile out from here."

Natasha doesn't let her relief show. She doesn't let her disappointment show, either. 

She arranges her face, carefully neutral.

"You'd better get something in you, then." She crosses the room, over to the fire, and she can feel Carter's eyes tracking her. Natasha pokes the fire, coaxing a few more flames out of it. A spark leaps out, hissing against the floor, and dying to black. "What?" she says, too quick, too harsh, and she looks over her shoulder to where she knows Carter is still staring at her.

"Nothing," Carter replies, equally as fast. They hang onto a shared gaze for far too long. Natasha thinks about Carter's head tucked into her shoulder, her entire body shaking with the cold, one hand gripping Natasha's arm like a vice. 

Carter's cheeks are blueish and her eyelids look bruised, thin. Natasha knows she doesn't look any better herself.

She has to say _something_ , to break the silence, to cut off the friction that will surely lead to something ill-advised.

She goes for, "I'm glad you're not dead." And Carter snorts weakly.

"Me too." 

The mistletoe over the doorframe is hanging down, a tail of it crowning the wall behind Carter's head. Natasha stands, brushing ash off her pants.

"You can walk now, then." She takes a few steps, winding around the couch, thinking about Carter's hair in her face and their bodies, pressed easily together, like that was how they had been made.

Carter watches Natasha draw closer.

"It was a struggle."

"I'm sure it was." Natasha rounds the table, and Carter tips her head back, resting against the wall. Natasha comes to a halt, her knees against the chair, and Carter gazes easily up at her.

"Mistletoe," Carter says, her eyes dancing to the leaves above her head. Natasha's gaze falls down the stretched line of Carter's throat, and Carter's pulse beats fast and steady beneath her skin. Natasha wants to put her mouth there, feel Carter thump against her tongue.

"You did that on purpose, Carter."

"If you're going to kiss me, you should call me Sharon," Sharon replies, eyes darker than ever. Natasha watches her lips move.

"Alright." They watch each other, and Natasha makes sure that the next sentence doesn't catch in her throat. "You did that on purpose, Sharon." Sharon opens her mouth to speak and Natasha kisses her. 

Everything rolls into nothing, into heat and softness and the feel of Sharon's lips. 

Sharon gasps against Natasha's mouth, Natasha let's her eyes slide closed, and then they both find their bearings.

Sharon tips her head back further, rolling her neck, Natasha brushes her thumb down Sharon's jawline, and Sharon's teeth are slick against Natasha's tongue.

Natasha cups Sharon's face with one hand, leaning into the kiss, smoothing her fingers over Sharon's skin.

The world consists of nothing but Sharon.

Natasha kisses her again, pulling away, her lips to the corner of Sharon's mouth, the underside of her jaw, trailing her mouth down Sharon's neck. Sharon's heartbeat pounds like fists against Natasha's tongue, and Natasha sucks lightly on her skin.

She pulls away. Sharon is flushed, breathing heavily, a red imprint of Natasha's teeth splayed over her jugular.

"Good God, Romanoff," Sharon gasps, finally. Natasha has to stop herself from grinning like a fool. "Took you long enough."

"If you're going to kiss me," Natasha says, sweeping Sharon's bangs away from her eyes, "you should call me Natasha." Sharon leans into her touch, her mouth still slightly open.

"I hate you," she says, a smile growing, one cheek dimpling. Natasha leans down, until they're nose to nose, sharing each other's space.

"Liar," Natasha growls, playfully, and Sharon's quick intake of breath is enough of a reply.

"Kiss me again," she says, a _demand_. Her eyes are honey-streaked, this close. 

Natasha gives in.

∆

Sharon takes two weeks of hospital leave and a week of shore leave.

She's back on the Helicarrier before her week is up, straight-backed, no smiles.

Natasha passes her in the corridor twice in two days, and before Agent Mackenzie passes between them with the presence of eight men, Natasha catches a long look from Sharon, the dark-eyed, stubborn-as-hell Sharon she met in a cabin in the middle of Fuck-Nowhere, Norway.

They both know what it means.

∆

Sharon gets transferred from the Helicarrier to the Triskelion, on order from Agent Hand herself. It's a promotion.

It doesn't feel like it.

She tracks Natasha down the second she's told to pack her bags, which just so happens to be ten thirty at night, Greenwich Mean Time.

She ducks in and out of rooms, the cafeteria, the training room, the control room, the bay room.

Sharon raises a fist and knocks on Natasha's cabin door.

It opens, too slow.

"Agent Thirteen," Natasha says, and Sharon sees her eyes flicking past her shoulder.

"It's ten thirty at night, Natasha," she says, pushing past her and into the cabin. "There's no one around." Natasha closes the door and leans against it, staring Sharon down from under heavy eyelids. 

Sharon picks her way restlessly around the room, hands deep in her pockets.

"Stop pacing and tell me, Sharon," Natasha says, too quick, too harsh. Sharon doesn't flinch this time. 

She shouldn't. 

She wants to.

It's the _want to_ that reaches for her with electric fingers, that drags on her hair and whispers in her ear: _you've come this far. Fall, Carter._

Sharon stops in front of Natasha, mid-step.

Natasha looks her up and down, from her white knuckles to the line between her eyebrows.

"And?" she asks, softly. 

Sharon kisses her. Hard and heady, and within half a moment, Natasha is kissing her back, fingers digging into her spine, licking at the seam of Sharon's lips. 

Sharon shoves her into the door, sliding her hands down Natasha's body, and when she gets to her hips, she stops and pulls away. Natasha gasps once, and lets her eyes flutter closed.

"God _damn_ ," she says, a hiss through her teeth. Sharon dips her head, mouth angling for Natasha's jaw, and when her lips find Natasha's skin, the world shrinks to Natasha and nothing else.

"Sounds about right," Sharon breathes, and Natasha shivers deliciously.

"What are you doing here?" Natasha mumbles. Sharon kisses her neck, and Natasha's fingers curl into the muscle in her back.

"I..." Sharon hesitates.

"Spit it out," Natasha says coolly, threading her fingers through Sharon's hair. Sharon bites, sinking her teeth into Natasha's jaw, in lieu of an answer. Natasha makes a sound, dangerously close to a moan, drawn out and rumbling. Sharon trembles.

"I'm leaving for the Triskelion tomorrow," she whispers, and pauses, waiting for-

She doesn't know. Natasha freezes too, for a second.

She wonders, if Natasha will be angry. Push her away and demand something else. 

Shrug and accept it, move on.

"A good thing I'm going to the same place, then," Natasha replies, and every muscle in Sharon's body seems to relax. She pulls away, still loosely tangled around Natasha, only far enough to find Natasha's eyes.

Still epically green, emeralds, poison. Natasha's smiling.

"Really?" Sharon asks, tentatively, holding back a rush of relief.

"Really," Natasha replies. Her smile widens. "I may have had something to do with it-"

"Fuck you," Sharon says, a huff bubbling up, and then she's laughing, full on shaking, lips messily ghosting Natasha's cheek.

"That's the idea," Natasha says slyly, and she hikes Sharon's shirt up at the back to run her fingers softly over Sharon's skin.

"Oh," Sharon murmurs, leaning in to kiss Natasha again. "Wouldn't want to waste a moment."

**Author's Note:**

> yes. The only natsharon I can write are (sort of) festive ficlets.
> 
> Shout at me on Tumblr, paperbeliefs
> 
> Or send me a fic prompt in submissions :)


End file.
